


Cold Supper

by halotolerant



Category: Atlantis (UK TV)
Genre: Cats, Declarations Of Love, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Presents, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hercules can’t cook and Jason keeps making these insane meaningless noises when confronted with raw food like: <i>microwave, best before end, ketchup, Jamie Oliver</i> and <i>pot noodle</i>. Maybe they’re an incantation to Jason’s gods of the hearth, but Pythagoras doesn’t really want stray gods to add to his list of reasons why the house is a tip (just try living with heroes: super strong, yet not so much with the tidying). </p><p>So Pythagoras cooks. Or would, if certain people would remember to bring him back his ingredients from the market.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Supper

**Author's Note:**

> I love the Jason/Pythagoras, but I still can't resist these two either *g* Oh 'Atlantis', so many good characters! And we're only two eps in! *bounces*

“No one else you’d rather spend your last moments with, eh?” says Hercules, with a smug grin. 

“Wanting to die with someone doesn’t imply you find living with them anything other than torturous, now do you have the fish for supper or don’t you?” Pythagoras holds out his hand impatiently. Hercules can’t cook and Jason keeps making these insane meaningless noises when confronted with raw food like: _microwave, best before end, ketchup, Jamie Oliver_ and _pot noodle._ Maybe they’re an incantation to Jason’s gods of the hearth, but Pythagoras doesn’t really want stray gods to add to his list of reasons why the house is a tip (just try living with heroes: super strong, yet not so much with the tidying). 

So Pythagoras cooks. Or would, if certain people would remember to bring him back his ingredients from the market.

Rather than spin some yarn about how he lost the money on a sure thing at the rat-racing or the bull fighting or foxes-and-hens, though, Hercules is blushing a little and toeing the floor. 

“I thought, maybe, since you’d said...” Hercules begins, in a mumble. 

“We are not eating human liver, no matter what your friend who claims to be a demi-centaur says about virility!” Pythagoras reiterates. He’d _really_ hoped he’d got that point across for good last year. (Being promised an anniversary ‘you’ll never forget’ and then never forgetting it because your lover has to spend the night retching over a bucket is, well, something he’d rather forget really). 

“No, no!” Hercules looks shocked. Like he’d never ever tell Pythagoras he’d not do something and then do it anyway. 

(They are one angry, priceless Egyptian temple cat past Pythagoras ever believing that again. And cats that believe themselves to be gods incarnate? Sharp. Sharp and persistent. And inclined to pee on Pythagoras’ neatly stacked diagrams, which is just...)

Pythagoras takes a deep breath and folds his arms, waiting. It’s been a long day, he can’t figure out the constant of the angle against the hypotenuse and he’s hungry. 

“I just thought,” Hercules continues. “You know, like you do...”

And Pythagoras is about to say something else cutting about _him_ maybe thinking, but Hercules clearly being a novice at the process, when Hercules brings from a package in his hand a shimmer of blue light. 

Beads. Jade and quartz and lapis lazuli, by the look of them, tiny and perfect, row upon row twisted together, and at the centre a disc of gold wire, superimposed on which is a shining gem in the shape of a perfect...

“Triangle...” Pythagoras murmurs, reaching out before he thinks. “Oh. Oh, Hercules.”

“Yes, well,” Hercules is shifting again, clearing his throat. “I just wanted to say, you know, thank you. For wanting to die with me, I wouldn’t.... Well, I wouldn’t want to be alive, actually, if you weren’t alive too, so...”

“You awful man,” Pythagoras says softly, running the beads over his fingers again before looking up. “How are you so perfect?”

“Perfect, eh? Now, see, I’ll be reminding you of that next time I...”

“Don’t!” Pythagoras instructs, and grabs him and kisses him quickly to be sure of shutting him up. “Don’t, you’re doing really well up till now. Well, there isn’t any fish, but...”

And then, as Pythagoras had rather hoped would happen, Hercules growls at him, sweeps him off his feet, carries him off to the bedroom and makes him forget about the fish and even the beads, even the triangles, about everything except Hercules and how, just sometimes, he is perfect indeed. 

(They eat bread and olives and cheese that’s maybe a little too green around the edges that night instead. Jason mutters the words _Kentucky Fried Chicken_ , but nothing appears to happen so whether it’s a prayer or not still isn’t clear. Pythagoras intends to undertake further observation.)


End file.
